I just got back from a play. It was an independent production put on by my school's theatre department. I still feel a bit disoriented. It was all over the place, touching on topics like labor rights, gender, sexuality, and the demon that is memory; a veritable boiling pot of psychoses dreamt up by college students. I think my favorite character, as listed on the playbill, was "The Sausage Man," a strange anachronistic apparition that haunts the dreams of troubled minds with his hand-held sausage grinder. I think I liked it best when his big bug eyes popped out from beneath the brim of his bowler hat, the clanking gears of his sausage grinder doing the talking for his fiendish smile.
If I let my imagination run too free, sometimes I forget where I am. Leaving the playhouse, walking back to my apartment, I traveled through an amazingly surreal world as the reality slowly began to seep back in. It more like percolated, really. It had to gurgle out of my mind and come back in splotches.
Friday nights in Berkeley, especially around the Telegraph Avenue area, are always filled with life. There are bubbly packs of girls in skirts. There are surly stags, waiting on street corners, cell phones in hand as they wait for the call. There are sirens blazing down the street to somewhere else, and it doesn't worry anybody because the sirens are headed somewhere else. There are the hot dogs sizzling in the hot dog shop (Top Dog is a Berkeley institution), and there are people dressed for a soirée clacking by.
I guess I better go to sleep now; I have work tomorrow.
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